Commando #2

Randolph O. Mann Brandish She knew exactly what she was doing and very inappropriately so did all her classmates AND the parents sitting in the bleachers. Once the referee blew the whistle signaling this extremely one-sided water polo contest had mercifully been stopped both teams locked-stoke for the traditional demonstration of good sportsmanship as the squads linearly assembled at mid-pool to offer soggy obligatory high-fives before swimming to their respective sides of the pool where her Coach then took every second of seventeen excruciatingly long minutes to deliver her post game evaluation, rationalizing how a twenty-one to three drubbing may look bad on paper but “you girls can hold your heads up, because I expect some good things to come out of this pool today.” Then everyone and I do mean everyone, just sat back, shut up and let this little escapade play its self out. She untied and pulled her number 13 cap off while she was still treading water in the pool. Once it was her turn, she dunked her head straight back into the water while holding onto the hand railing of the pool side step-ladder, to let the effects of the water runoff curry her waist length blond hair as gradually rung by dripping rung the shapely swimmer emerged from the swimming pool water. She leisurely scaled those aluminum steps all the while clutching her headgear as she climbed out of that water polo arena and into the fantasies of her admiring fans. Her hair was chlorine bleached that flaxen color that only dedicated water polo players can achieve from their long hours spent in the pool and those pale locks flowed almost all the way down her back ending in perfectly trimmed ends courtesy of well a managed diet and daily use of conditioner. Additionally, this fair-haired mermaid was sporting a golden suntan seldom accomplished this early into the season and with pool water beading upon her gooseflesh arms and thighs this little water minx was forced to scamper into the warming sunshine joining her green-eyed teammates on the Visiting Team’s Bench. The anesthetized camaraderie exhibited by her female teammates made her imminent venture appear quite commonplace as this potential First Team All-Conference Hole Check-turned-seductress went about her spectacular performance by slipping off the shoulder straps of her red one piece Speedo swimsuit. Her Lycra harnessing was permitted to carelessly free fall, collapsing at the sides of her athletic biceps allowing the taunt red swim wear fabric to relax, while having the direct opposite effect upon the fascinated spectators. Clumsily funneling each of her elbows through the tangled ribbons of the yoke comprising the swimmer’s uniform helped to focus all the interested imaginations in attendance toward the dynamic struggle between the ever vigilant forces of earth’s Gravitational Pull at work upon this athlete’s personal modesty. Currently at liberty, the red strapping of her swimming suit bodice dropped, pell-mell beneath her scythed armpits, dangling next to her heaving ribcage while she briskly dries the beading pool water from her long trim legs. With such vagarious arm actions, all of the present voyeurs were forced to question their contemporary understanding of ‘dynamic tension,’ as common sense would predict that with such verve one might have expected something to escape. Once all of the surplus dampness saturating her lower appendages had been absorbed the naughty towel was draped across the saggy bathing suit covering her ample chests in such a way as to obscure them from the intense scrutiny of her adoring fans. Then by shrewdly pinching the terry cloth fabric between her pixie chin and her suntanned collar bone this curvy aquanaut was then allowed sufficient autonomy to employ both of her hands when lowering the bodice of her swimming suit to a level somewhere between the belly button and her bikini line. Perfectly synchronized, both of those mischievous hands seductively recoiled up along the opposite edges of the terry cloth grabbing the beach-duster at her armpits, just before her chin and both biceps relaxed their hold. Everyone acquainted with this little vixen appreciated how this self induced scrutiny was morphing into grand theater owning to how her precarious modesty was working without the benefit of drapery safety netting and that just one inadvertent finger slip is all it would take to send that bath sheet facade plummeting downward thrusting her precipitous torso into the full light of day. And it was based upon such conjecture of how such a corporeal possibility could achieve substance that this demonic water-sprite was inspired to execute a girlish half pirouette away from the fascinated voyeurs exposing her bare flip side shoulder-blades to their collective viewing. A perceptible groan sounded as the terry cloth blotter was removed and employed to pat dry her judiciously secreted breasts before venturing upward to sponging-up the droplets encircling her sun-baked neck. A defining silence descended as she employed a practiced behind-the-back towel-flick to transfer custody of the loose end of that ‘swimmer’s shammy’ over to her left hand in order to utilize a very sensual tug-o-war maneuver in order to clear her bronzed stern, drip by sexy drip, of excess water. She set her cherry-colored bottom into motion rocking side to side in a perverted version of the Pasodoble as she ever so slowly managed to dry her dorsal surface. Once all was dry this water pixy completed the second half of her modesty turn but only after pinching the corner of the towel between thumb and index finger and unfurling the towel to cover first her left then her right breast as she trapped the terry cloth fabric with the underside of her upper left arm before drawing the cloth taught. Exchanging random eye contact with spellbound members of the assemble crowd cemented how her exhibition is defiantly premeditated and boldly choreographed with iniquitous intentions as her nibble fingers performed the uncanny act of reaching to the rear when collecting the flaccid bathing blanket at her side before pulling the cloth taunt and tightly wrapped the minuscule toweling snuggly around her naked trunk by locking the privileged corner of terry cloth securely at her cleavage by seductively tucking the crook of fabric in between her orbs. Rebelliously she pirouetted around facing the bleachers with her red shoulder straps daringly below the hem of her makeshift body wrap helping direct everyone’s attention to the disturbingly limited coverings adorning her body. Seditious fingers from each of her hands wandered beneath the terry cloth swathe to hook the elastic leg band of the scarlet swimming suit at her hips. A purposeful downward tug was all she needed to free the waterlogged garment from her curvy derrière as it was hauled down those shapely legs prior to dropping into a soggy heap entangling her ankles. A dainty shuffle step freed the swimmer’s feet and also every tainted imagination watching from the grandstands. By crouching down in a modest fashion with both of her knees tightly fused her lady-fingers were allowed the opportunity to harvest the sodden bathing garment from the pool tiles devoid of frankly exposing her delicate area up for direct review by her adoring public. Her modesty was preserved apart from owing to a marvelous opportunity provided by the sun’s afternoon location that sited a very mutinous shadow revealing to each and every one the silhouetted rendering of her privates in their shaded form and further delineating how all the wayward imaginings was actually the case. She was able to avert immoral scrutiny by rising in one singular graceful motion uncurling her well-formed legs and circuitously bending at the waist while aiming her bottom away from the prying inspection from the bleachers by divulging her ‘lady business’ to an examination from her fellow players. The shocked expression of her teammates as her naked posterior view was thrust upon them only worked to confirm the nastiest of the mental pictures forming in the various ‘Bleacher Bums’ mind's eye. From this awkward bent pose she was able to discard the wet garment into her athletic-grip before collecting a hair brush that was pressed into the practiced action of curing her golden locks after assuming an upright stance affording her the freedom to untangle her fair-haired mane. Common sense would predict this arrangement could become an x-rated disaster as dynamic tension was commissioned into service as this presumptuous lady’s only defense from total exposure. Centrally position and Spartan underneath her terry cloth garb the naked dryad challenge providence by arrogantly setting to work with a hair bush as she used both hands upon this task. Together her arms worked high above her shoulders combing-out those golden tresses. Haughtiness be dammed, this aqua-maid was pulling out all the stops as her personal grooming forced the hem of her wrap to rise provocatively high when she gathered the hair into a yellow ponytail. All her teammates redirected their attention skyward away from the celebrated D-Hole fearing an encore as she bent at the middle once again, allowing an exchange of the grooming brush for her after-swim cover-up that turned out to be just an oversized white t-shirt. Breach has made by threading her long arms and head into the bottom opening of the cotton top and hoisting both limbs high above her head permitting that cotton wrapper liberty to settle at her broad swimmers shoulders. Displaying a calculated smile in the exacting direction of her long-suffering throng of voyeurs was all it took to indicate her devilish intentions as she applied reciprocal drag to the hem of her terry cloth drape setting into motion a desperate fabric pursuit challenging Newton’ s theory as her shirttail rushed to replace the declining towel. Timing is everything and the meandering textile ballet that this impish water vixen had set into motion was achieving her desired jaw dropping effect as the terry cloth towel dropped about her feet and the oversized top discreetly covered all risqué points of curiosity. Another visit into her athletic grip produced a pleated MacDonald Tartan mini skirt that forced composure from the water-maid due to the cheeky distance between the shirt turn-up and her center of the universe. In a stationary prancing fashion both of her ankles plunged inside the waistband of the school’ s uniform as the catholic kilt climbed her attractive thighs and swimmingly swathed her nimble stern. Speedy fingering of the buttons and zipper locked the pious sarong in place so a simple tug could release her pale blouse from the confining grasp of the plaid cinch around her middle before it was tied into a suggestive knot divulging her smoothly rippled tummy for communal study. Side-stepping into her waiting flip-flops completed her untamed raiment and a sinful wink closed the show as she scampered out of the public eye and bounded commando style into the waiting team bus.

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